When Rome Stumbles

by David Kershner

  The dominant story in the cable news cycle was dealing with an American military transport that had been shot down days earlier near the northeastern Syrian border. Video was just now being made available. The broadcasters described the location as a desolate mountainous region a short distance Al-Malikiyah. They stated that DoD reports indicated UN troops had cleared the area of insurgents, but there were pockets of resistance remaining. The pundits reminded viewers that Syria had been pacified very quickly and very early on in the war. Unfortunately, rescue teams were having difficulty reaching the crash site because of the terrain.

  To Emily’s horror, the transport’s demise had been videotaped by a cameraman waiting on the next flight. The announcers made it a point to mention that the images she was about to see were graphic in nature. As Emily watched the video, she saw bodies and pieces of the transport falling to the earth. The bulk of the aircraft fuselage cleared a distant ridge and it was presumed to have landed in a steep valley.

  Emily was disgusted at the carnage caught on tape and broadcast. When did they start allowing such disturbing images on TV? The cameraman’s commentary stated that he didn’t think there would be any survivors. The broadcasters somberly read from the teleprompter that the Army was withholding the names of the deceased until the next of kin were notified.

  She had seen and heard enough. She quickly turned off the television. Emily stood silently in her kitchen and started praying for the fallen. She asked God to watch over these brave men until their loved ones could join them.

  She tried to stop it, but the thought that her husband could be on one of the massive transports crept into her mind. If that day ever came, though, she hoped that someone would say a prayer for him like she was for these strangers. She didn’t want to think about that. Life without Gregg was hard enough when he was deployed. She couldn’t imagine having to stand there and be handed a folded flag by some stranger. Gregg had been in and out of town so frequently that Emily could barely keep up with his deployments as it was. With the U.S. involvement limited, she felt confident that he wasn’t there anyway.

  After all, she was now five months pregnant with their first child and she didn’t need the stress or the worry. Her OB/GYN had told her that, due to her predisposition for miscarriages, she needed to take no chances with this baby. She was instructed to be mindful of her prenatal vitamins, cut back her work schedule, and remove all caffeine, sweets, and artificial anything from her diet. Emily was also ordered to have at least thirty minutes of mild exercise every day. Gregg had been so excited when she told him the news over a video call that he said he was going to file his retirement paperwork that afternoon.

  Much to Emily’s disappointment though, the Army offered Gregg one-hundred thousand dollars to stay in and re-enlist for another stint. He told her he couldn’t pass it up because he was determined that his child would grow up with more than he had. He didn’t want them to ever have to worry about college costs, home repairs, or anything money related again.

  Emily had never been without at any point in her entire sheltered life. She simply couldn’t relate. When she reminded him that she had a modest trust fund and that her parents were always willing to help out financially, he adamantly refused. In his mind, if he accepted financial assistance it would mean that he had failed her as a husband. Em tried to convince him that it wouldn’t be like that, but still he wouldn’t relent.

  As she finished her prayer, there was a quiet knock on the door. She turned and walked across the foyer floor and saw two silhouettes standing on the front porch through the frosted glass of the front door. One was wearing his cover. She may not have embraced her role as a military wife, but she could spot men in uniform a mile away. They never slouched, ever.

  Emily knew what this was and turned around and headed back to the kitchen for her English muffins. She didn’t want to hear what a man of the cloth and some Army officer had to say. Her husband wasn’t dead, by God, and if she didn’t answer the door it would remain so.

  There was a louder knock on the door and then, “Ma’am, please open the door. I’m Chaplain Yeager. We have to talk.”

  This isn’t happening! Damn it, Gregg! I’m too young to be a widow, she screamed in her head.

  She couldn’t just stay in her house pretending that she hadn’t seen them on the front porch. Damn! Damn! Damn!

  Emily found her resolve, stiffened her back, and began marching with purpose to the door.

  * * *

  At precisely 4:45 AM, Josh’s alarm awoke him from a deep sleep. As he padded across the living room to the kitchen for his morning cup of coffee, Layla greeted him.

  “Still get up this early, eh?”

  “Yup, this is a working farm, ya know. What are you doing up? I figured a college girl like you had grown accustomed to sleeping until noon,” he replied.

  “Yeah right, Dad. I’m usually in the bio lab at 7:30 in the morning. Besides, I like to get my exercise in for the day. Once my first class starts, I don’t stop until 3:00. After that, I have to study and then I’m at the restaurant by 5:00 for my shift. I don’t leave from there until 10:30 - 11:00 most nights.”

  “Well, you’re not at school now and there’s a gym in the basement. Go back to bed, hun,” Josh said gently.

  “Can’t. You know that. Once I’m up, I’m up,” she replied.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Your mother was the same way,” her father replied and immediately regretted the reference to his ex-wife.

  Noticing that he winced after the comment, Layla said to him, “Dad, Katherine and I have forgiven mom. It took some time and a lot of therapy, but we eventually realized that she couldn’t be held accountable for those guys’ actions. You should too.”

  Josh stood there listening to his daughter speaking calmly and rationally about forgiveness for the woman that had orchestrated their kidnapping. All he could do was shake his head. They were still under the impression that her only sin was adultery.

  When he finally did manage to speak, he said, “One day, when you two have children of your own, you’ll understand why I can never do that.”

  “Dad, it’s not like we wanted to spend any appreciable amount of time with her, but the hatred we were feeling toward her was tearing us apart. If we weren’t able to forgive her we were likely to follow in her footsteps of dependency. At least, that’s what the shrink said. Katherine did it more quickly than me. That’s why they held me back and she and I wound up in the same grade.”

  “I know. The doc told me the same thing,” he said and changed the subject by asking, “Have you and Katherine talked? I mean, how are you two holding up?”

  “Oh, we’re fine. I think in some ways we’ve already said goodbye to her. She relapsed three times since the divorce and we saw firsthand how paralyzing and demonizing the drugs and alcohol became. She pretty much screwed up any chance at a real relationship with us long ago, but I’m sure they’ll be tears at the funeral. Sometime down the road, there will be the occasional thought of what might have been. I like the way you changed the subject though.”

  “You noticed that, huh.”

  “Please try and forgive her, Daddy. For us,” she begged.

  “I’ll try,” Josh said trying to belay his daughters concerns knowing full well that he was lying through his teeth.

  In an effort to change the subject again before he blurted out the whole story he had sworn never to tell them, he said, “Well, I guess we need to call Aunt Kristin and make arrangements for some sort of memorial or something.”

  “Yeah, she’ll probably want to do a service of some kind. Although, I’m not sure who’d attend. Grandma and Grandpa died years ago and just about everyone else was used, lied to, or flat out alienated,” Layla answered.

  “Attending a funeral isn’t necessarily about the deceased. Sometimes you come to show support for the survivors,” Josh replied.

  “Well, I wouldn’t be in too big of a hurry to call is all I’m saying. Besides, she’s pr
obably already seen the news so I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a ticket for the train. I think you’re the only person in this country that doesn’t have a TV. I can’t believe the Sheriff had to come out here to tell you.”

  “TV’s don’t do anything but spread lies, try to convince me to buy something I don’t need or want, and they constantly fill your head with endless chatter. No, thank you,” Josh replied emphatically.

  “Oh, Daddy,” Layla admonished. “You sound like one of those old people from the fifties protesting Elvis Presley’s gyrating hips and rock-n-roll when you say stuff like that.”

  “Well it’s true... I think at any rate,” her father replied.

  “I know, I know,” she said mockingly.

  “Aunt Kristin said Katherine and I could call her anytime day or night, but she usually isn’t up before 7:30. Let her sleep until then before you call,” Layla instructed.

  “Yes, dear,” Josh replied sarcastically, emulating his daughter. “I’ll try and reach her when I get back from checking the farm,” Josh said as she was departing the kitchen for the gym.

  Josh’s morning routine for the last several years had been to drink his cup of coffee, dress, and then fire up his camouflage Yamaha Rhino for his morning tour of the farm. At precisely 5:30 every morning, he and Juan met at the north end of the property by the greenhouses to determine the day’s needs. During the colder winter months, the daily tasks were limited. It typically involved only the feeding of the penned animals and possibly moving the grazing stock from one pasture to another. It always concluded with a stop in the greenhouses to check the hydroponic nutrient solution levels and quality.

  Years earlier, a regional produce firm had approached Josh and proposed the installation of a half dozen structures. When the ink dried on the contract, it was decided that they would manage the facility in name only. Given the prime location of the farm, the vegetable grower could easily service Ohio’s 3C corridor of Cleveland, Columbus, and Cincinnati. Josh had strict control over the hydroponic solutions and anything grown on his farm was heirloom and organic. He didn’t trust anyone with that mantra.

  As the years passed, the number of greenhouse bays was increased to sixteen. Each building measured just over twenty-eight hundred square feet. The land had the acreage to support the operation and maintain his various farming interests without an undue burden.

  Additional farm related tasks varied depending on the season and the weather. There might be planting or harvesting, hunting and trapping quotas, as well as the preparation of any harvested livestock. After the discussion of the daily chores was complete, the two would survey the property together looking for damaged fences, fallen trees, or limbs. This was especially true during the cold Ohio winter months when branches would bow until they snapped under the weight of snow or ice. This review and assignment of duties usually took the two until around 7:00 AM.

  When Josh made it back to the cabin, Katherine had started a fire in the fireplace and was sitting under a blanket reading one of her college texts on her tablet. Josh walked to the kitchen and picked up the phone to dial his former sister-in-law.

  She answered on the first ring and said, “Good morning, Josh.”

  “Hey, Kristin,” came the reply. “So I assume you’ve seen the news?”

  “Yeah, I saw it. I’m on the 7:00 AM train out of Boston tomorrow morning. It’s not an express route so that puts me in Columbus around 6:00 PM.”

  “Do I need to pick you up or are you staying at Amanda’s place?”

  “I’ll catcha cab from the station to Amanda’s and stay there for a night or two and prepare everything for the auction. I’ve already called the realtor so we are meeting to do a walk through and see if there is anything we need to fix before we put it on the market.”

  “Damn, you work fast,” Josh said astounded at the speed with which she was already moving.

  “Not me. My sister,” she replied.

  “How’s that?”

  “Josh, she was a drunk and an addict, but it doesn’t mean she still wasn’t a planner when she was sober. She had occasional moments of clarity,” Kristin explained.

  “I’m sorry, Kristin. I don’t follow,” her former brother-in-law answered.

  “Amanda mailed me her will several years ago along with several sets of instructions. She specified what she wanted done with her possessions, property, vehicles, and what not in case she relapsed and overdosed, or disappeared. Like I said, she was the planner.”

  “The only thing she owned was that house. She never could let go of her childhood home,” Josh said through a sigh. “I’d review that document carefully and compare it to what you find before you call anyone and tell them you have something to auction. Chances are, if it had any value, it’s already been hocked to feed her addictions. The girls told me she didn’t have any vehicles because her license was permanently revoked and the courts made her sell them. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the possessions turn up missing or in local pawn shops to pay for her habit,” Josh told her with no real emotion in his voice.

  “Josh,” Kristin said, “When did you become so cold to her? I mean, when we’ve spoken over the years, the way you spoke about your past with her it was as if she was already gone. You did it again.”

  “I’d say it was probably right around the time I discovered her entire family hid the fact that she was a heroin addict from me. You think that might have something to do with it?” Josh replied in a manner that said he was disengaging from the conversation.

  “That’s not fair and you know it. She’d been clean a decade before you met,” she countered.

  “Goodbye, Kristin. Call when you have the arrangements finalized,” Josh said impassively.

  “Wait! Stay on the line,” she frantically demanded as if she were trying to hold on to the last fleeting moment with an Alzheimer patient. “No!” she said again, more forcefully this time.

  “Josh Simmons!” she screamed into the phone as if she knew what he was in the process of doing. “Josh –,” she began to scream again as he hung up and the line went dead.

  * * *

  Gregg awoke and found himself naked and bound to a chair. There were three men standing over him waiting for him to regain his mental acuity. He was soaking wet from perspiration and the apparent dousing of water to rest him from his state of unconsciousness. As the captor threw the empty bucket in the corner, the three began conversing to one another in hushed tones. Gregg could barely discern what they were saying. He knew they were speaking Farsi, but not audibly enough to understand their conversation. He was able to make out something about a second prisoner, an Airmen, in a nearby room, but that was about all.

  Gregg’s unit, as with all Special Forces units, had been trained extensively in interrogation techniques. He knew that his situation was precarious at best.

  He began to quickly take in his surroundings. His hands and feet were bound. He could taste blood in his mouth and his jaw hurt like hell. One of those bastards probably punched me.

  He looked down at the throbbing in his leg and saw that his thigh appeared to have been sutured by a first year medical student. That must have happened in the crash.

  There were three dim light bulbs dangling from a ceiling of stone. An old wooden chair and a desk occupied a corner and a lone door was directly in front of him. His assessment quickly surmised that there wasn’t much to work with. Gregg needed to get out of this cell which was a task easier said than done as one of the three would-be tormentors more closely resembled a Mack truck.

  The grinding of steel locks and bolts drew his immediate attention to the entrance where another individual was now emerging. Interesting. They’ve got the thing locked from the outside. Scenarios for escaping began swirling in his head. Where the hell am I?

  The fourth man walked to the desk and took a seat in the corner as he placed a folder on the desk. Without looking up, he said in Farsi, “Aban, you may begin.”

  The Mack truck
approached, clenched his right hand into a fist, and punched Gregg in his exposed abdomen as hard as possible. Gregg wasn’t able to absorb the blow due to being bound to the chair. He didn’t feel any ribs crack from the assault. The sucker punch was sufficient enough to express all of the air from his lungs though. Gregg doubled over more in an attempt to protect his body from a second shot than from the pain. As he continued to gasp for air, Aban was instructed to back up by the man seated at the desk. Oddly, he obeyed the command without acknowledging the order or the person giving it. That told Gregg something too. It said that whoever this guy was, he had absolute control and authority over the other three men.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Gregg saw that the fourth man had remained seated and was continuing to read from the file. He allowed Gregg to regain his breath and composure before saying in English, “Mr. Chastain, my name is Suhrab Akhtar Esfahani. You may call me Suhrab for short. You’ve just met Aban. The other two are Mahtab and Taj. Please do not show me the discourtesy of denying that you are a United States Special Forces soldier fluent in Arabic, Farsi, and Kurdish.”

  Crap. Not good.

  Gregg forced himself to sit upright once more. Gregg detected a hint of a British accent in Suhrab’s English. That was an interesting oddity too. Before he began dwelling for too long on that anomaly he began thinking about the Watauga River near his home in the mountains of North Carolina. That was his sanctuary. He needed to disengage his brain to keep from breaking and divulging information.

  The Special Forces squads all received extensive training in the resistance of physical coercion. Their trainers acknowledged that just about everyone broke under extreme interrogation. As a result, the knowledge base was geared toward raising pain tolerance thresholds enough to confuse interrogators. If they could endure beyond the brutality, then the interrogator might incorrectly surmise that the prisoner knew nothing and the interrogations would stop.